There was an itching in the center of his back. It started when he was young. While sneakily trying on a dress, he scraped his back on a nail. The itch was small at first, but it grew over time. He went to his parents, then the doctor. Nothing there, they said. He felt it though. The feeling spread, upwards and downwards just to the left of his spine. It grew into a capital I Itch. Tranquilizers helped numb it when he could find them. Alcohol helped too. The Itch flared at inopportune moments - during sex, getting dressed, being photographed. Made keeping a girlfriend hard. Not much easier to keep a boyfriend.

On occasion, he saw stuff. Weird stuff. Hallucinations or something. Stuff that didn't make sense to see on real people. He ignored it like he did the Itch.

Once he saw something while walking downtown in the early morning. Swore he saw it. There was a man, late middle age, standing at a bus stop in an ill-fitting suit. Normal enough so far, but an oddity in the corner of his vision, caused him to double take. A hint of something sloughing backwards from the man. Shouldn't have looked back. Never look back. Remember that. Mistakes can’t be undone. Tried his best to block it out. Pretend what he saw didn't nauseate him. But the rotting corpse hanging half out of the man's back still slid into his mind directly out of the back of the man’s coat.

He cried himself to sleep the same night as the Itch intensified, pulsing like a counterpoint to his heartbeat. Embarrassing, that. Men don't cry. His Da would be ashamed of him if he found out. Start rolling in his grave before he was even buried. Nothing doing, he'd insist if asked. Might have been the chicken he ate for dinner, perhaps. He was normal compared to those non-humans and the flaming queers his Da railed against. Normal a son as a militant, domineering Father could ask for. Wasn't like one of those wanna-robots of the Collective, or whatever they called themselves, or those gene-splicing weirdos with cat ears and tails, or those magus freaks throwing around spells. No, he was a man. That's what his father demanded of him, and dammit, he was going to make him proud. Even if it killed him. Small price to pay for the family's honor. 

He avoided the street where the man died from then on. Best not risk a repeat. Days later, he learned it wasn't necessary. He was reading the weekend paper, hoping for something to say to the people at work on Monday. The man was in the paper. Dead. It seemed he stepped in front of that bus. Some new, militant group of non-humans, Devils or something, caused a fuss about it. They called the man a Still-born, said his chance to Become was stolen. It really pissed off the Fundies. 

His Da said the Fundies had changed since the Convergence. Judgement Day, he called it. No more worrying about the gays or the —. He wasn't going to repeat those words, not even in his mind. Point was, the previous undesirables were no longer a target, as long as they assimilated properly. The Fundies had bigger concerns now. "We must secure the existence of our people, and a future for human children." Seemed a bit much to him, but arguing with his Da was not an option.

This Still-born thing stuck in his head no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. He kept trying to slide his mind away from what he saw. Ever crack an egg for breakfast, and a half formed bird slides onto the sizzling pan? It had that feeling, that quiet horror which demands acceptance. Every egg is a potential corpse. A potential Life, denied any chance to continue. He couldn’t understand how no one else noticed it around that man. Really, it should have reeked. Wrongness like that should have a smell, something to give a bit of warning. Not that there was warning before the Convergence.

Nothing made sense lately. Everyone kept acting like these people, these non-humans just popped into existence when it happened. He's not so sure. His favorite teacher, Dr. Alan Hart, told him the Convergence just made non-humans more obvious. They'd always lived among us, the source of our myths. He thought that made more sense, but. Dunno. Not something to discuss in polite company, his Ma would say. She was strict about politeness, appearances, and stoicism. Know the rules. Follow them. That’s good breeding. Honors the family.

He went to work like normal, ate lunch, ignored the Itch, and finished his tasks. Can't let people think he’s different. Could lose his family, his job, his house. His landlord had a strict Humans Only policy. Didn't much like that he had a boyfriend either, but there was laws against that sort of discrimination, thankfully. 

His boyfriend was a lot more open-minded. Caring. Turner accepted him, held him close when the Itch got so bad he tore bloody gashes in the skin, didn't get upset over last-minute canceled plans, understood his fear. Turner listened to him when he worried he'd never live up to his Da's expectations, never mocked his trouble with intimacy, whether it was sex or holding hands in public. Turner was a good man. Kept trying to get him to go to a non-human rights protest. Not that he would be caught dead at one of those. It was too much of a risk. Imagine if his Da found out? His life would be over.

He should have gone to that protest. The Pope declared that non-humans were Abominations, worse than nuclear weapons, threatening the Annihilation of Man. If he wasn't such a fucking coward, he would have gone. Would have been there. Could have done something. Turner was different afterwards. Barely alive in any way that mattered. If he'd gone, maybe Turner wouldn't have been grabbed by Fundies. They shipped him off to The Abbott Center for Family Values. They called it Deprogramming, making sure he wasn't contaminated by the Non-humans.

When Turner came back, he was Empty. Holes right through him, but Turner didn't seem to notice the void, nor did anyone else. He nearly threw up when he first saw them. Worked up the courage to touch Turner, saw glistening bone and wet meat but felt only the reassuring touch of his skin. The worst was watching him eat, seeing the food turn to paste through the hole in his cheek, slide down his esophagus through the holes in his chest that clothing failed to cover. Still, he should have said something. Should have gone to the protest. Should have done anything for once in his life. Two weeks later, Turner bought a handgun, walked into his parents' house, and shot himself through the head in front of them. In his heart, he knew Turner used his last strength to show them his Emptiness, forcing his body to show the holes where he knew they were. He still cried for days when he found out, barely able to get out of bed. His mind was filled with happy times they would never have again, Turner’s warmth next to him turned to cold vacancy, the emptiness all he left behind.

It changed him, shameful as that sounds. It takes the death of a loved one to convince a man to try something different. Just a faggot in a refrigerator. Turner deserved better. Deserved better than him. So despite himself, he had to do something different. He saw something in Turner when he came back and he saw something in that man at the bus stop. He needed answers. He couldn't go to a Psych or anything. Mandatory reporting laws meant any suspected non-human contamination had to be reported to next of kin and the State. It wasn’t worth the risk. He'd have to find a Witch. That was a start.

They were real weird sorts, but from what Turner told him, Witches could see stuff inside of people, the living clockwork. He needed to learn why he saw this strangeness. If it was anything like the Witches saw. How it started. What he could do about it, maybe even with it. Who he was supposed to be if he lived for himself. The questions bloated his mind, psychedelic sludge.

He called one of Turner's friends. They sobbed on the phone, and he couldn't blame them. They lost a partner from the protest as well. They were home sick, or they'd have been able to do something. He coaxed them to give him an address. Quail Hollow Road, Garland, about an hour's drive away. He headed out immediately. It wasn’t something to say over the phone. The drive was a blur, just the growing anxiety and his Itch flaring till it was nearly painful. He knocked on the door with trepidation. 

An old guy answered it. "Name's Hirschfeld. They're waiting for you." 

He nodded and went in, the door closing firmly behind him. It was private enough to talk now. "So are you…" He felt uncertainty down to his bones. He couldn't screw this up, couldn't offend them.

"Non-human?" Hirschfeld responded, "No, just looking out for people who need help. humanity isn't a requisite for personhood." 

He thought about that. It was missing something, "What about those that… Don't want to be people, aren't people?"

"You know the answer to that, somewhere inside, or you wouldn’t be asking. You treat them with respect. Do your best to see them the way they want to be seen." Hirschfeld smiled and led the way. It wasn't a large place, but comfortable looking, like people… um. Like it was well-lived in.

The two walked into the living room. In an armchair was a gorgeous woman, her remarkable eyes filled with purple light and tears.

"Sorry. Still working through my grief and guilt." They took a deep breath and tried again, "I'm Sylvia. She/They. A Magus, for all the good it does me."

"I um. I need to talk to a Witch. Please." He was brusque, didn't bother introducing himself. Who he was now didn't matter, just what he could be. How he could prevent what happened from happening again. "It's important. I Saw something. Something that others either didn't see or refused to. I need to know if I could have done something. If I can do something now. To make up for my failures."

She nodded, seeing his earnestness, and spoke to Hirschfeld, "Take our new… friend to see May. Perhaps she'll be able to assist."

"Yes, Ma'am. Is there anything I can do for you while I'm out?"

"No, thank you. I think I just need to be alone for a while. Adjust to being alone." They gave the two a bitter smile, and waved them off."Now get going. No time like the present."

They left the house and got into his piece of shit car. He rested his head against the wheel. His eyes weren't helping. Kept seeing Sylvia surrounded by flames and he didn't know if that was good or bad. "Am I fucking up again? I didn't say anything about what I saw this time, just like I didn't say anything to Turner."

Hirschfeld lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. "What'd you see?"

"Flames. They were engulfed in them. Not burning but. You know? Flames." He slammed his fist against his head again and again until Hirschfeld grabbed his arm. He’d drawn blood with the ring on his finger. The ring Turner gave him. Fuck. Holes in both their heads.

"Okay, none of that first of all.” Hirschfeld spoke sharply. “I'm not watching anyone beat themselves up. Ruins the mood, you know? Second of all, Sylvia's a Magus. She literally engulfs herself in flames when using her magic."

"So she's not in danger then?" He looked at Hirschfeld with hope.

"Course they're in danger. Just not from themself. Plenty of danger from the Fundamentalists, the government, their neighbors turning against them until there's nowhere left to go."

"That's awful." 

"That's why I'm trying to help. Gotta do what we can while we're here, and not take yourself out of the fight too early."

Hirschfeld directed him to a nearby neighborhood, to one of many cookie-cutter houses in a row. "Go on. I'll wait out here in case you need me afterwards." Hirschfeld spoke with secrets hidden under his tongue like pills. Pills or no, prying into a gift horse's mouth wasn't proper. He was where he needed to be.

He knocked on the door and a girl, something resembling a girl, answered. Like someone who had never seen a girl made one from descriptions in countless surrealist stories. She was made from porcelain, an hourglass abdomen, with sand flowing from chest to navel behind filigree glass. Their eyes were crystal orbs filled with seawater watching him blankly. Its nose was small but sharp, the steel razor-edged on its hooked underside. And he was staring like an Idiot. "Sorry. I'm here to see May. I was told she might be able to help me." 

"It will take you to its Mistress. Please follow. Take off your shoes first." 

Alright, 'It' was correct. A Doll maybe? Only thing that made sense to him. Turner spoke of them. So damaged, vitiated by their past that being a person was too painful to handle. Being a Doll was supposed to be part of the healing process. Didn't understand it. Didn't need to. Wasn't here to learn about Dolls. He pulled his shoes off, set them down and followed. Important to be polite. Follow the customs of your host. As his Ma always said, “Keep your opinions to yourself.”

The audience room was formal. Old formal,intimidating in an unfamiliar way. Red carpet, candlestick chandelier, high backed chair at the far end of the room with figures kneeling to either side. In the chair was a figure in a simple wooden mask and ornate robes.

"Welcome to my Dollhouse, Yearnling."

He shook his head. Pretty sure it was a slur or something, but it didn't matter. "Thank you for seeing me. I need your help." He dropped to his knees, ignoring both the pride his father beat into him, and his shame at begging. "Please. I need to Understand."

"To understand is a costly demand to ask of May the Blossom Witch. What sort of Devil's bargain would you offer?" Her voice resonated through his body. He convulsed as the familiar Itch changed. A wound tearing open in his skin, pulling him apart inch by inch from the back of his neck to the base of his pelvis, agonizing relief. A sign that he was on the right path. 

"What– What do you want from me? I don't have anything of value. I just want to help the people my boyfriend— the community Turner died trying to help. It's what he would have wanted." Turner wanted him to participate. To help the Non-humans. 

"Is that why you are here? To live your life for someone else? I thought you wanted to Understand? Do you even know why you are here, or are you merely stumbling forward blindly?"

Honesty. He needed to be honest about why he came. About why he wanted May's help.

"I need to understand myself. If I am going to be someone that Turner deserved, that can help my community, that… won't leave me feeling Empty at the end of the day. I'm here for me. The other stuff is just justification" My community? No, he couldn't think of that. He had to be a Man, like his Da. Fuck. Dammit, no, that wasn't him, no matter how much he tried. His father would never be satisfied, never be proud of him.

The Witch sagged in her throne. "Rose, it seems Violet is out of energy. My Dear Doll, please take its place." 

She pulled the mask from her porcelain face and passed it to the closest Doll, who put it on its own face. The robes faded from the seated figure and appeared on Rose - now the Witch. The seated figure became Violet the Doll once more. 

"Would you offer me your body like my Dolls do, Yearnling? Is it even yours to offer? You wear it like an ill-fitting suit. Who owns your body?"

He stared at her in bewilderment as she approached. This was his body, right? What else could it be? Not like God was handing out— Would be a blasphemy to even think that. Ill-fitting suit? Sure he’d had the Itch, uncomfortable like a seam or tag on clothes, but that's normal.

 "Of course it's my body! No one else owns it."

"Dear Yearnling, Your body is not Your body, yet. You are merely on the verge of Becoming, but whether you blossom or be Still-born is still unknown. You seek Understanding and so I will offer you this advice. What you see in others is real, not physical but spiritual. You don't have Sight like mine, but Sight of a different kind. Be yourself and die, or give up and let your potential die with you. Everyone who breathes dies eventually. It's what you do before then that matters." She spoke to him kindly, softly. More warmth than his Ma ever offered and more certainty than his Da ever managed.

He looked up at her as she touched his face. "No easy answers, I guess?" 

"No. But if you look, you will find the reason for your Yearning, and the answer to your question. Telling you what you already know won't help. You have to take the steps yourself." She helped him to his feet and walked him back to the entrance, waiting patiently for him to fumble his shoes back on. "Come back if you find yourself. It would be an honor to see what you Become."

He walked out. Stared at his companion who sat on the hood of the car casually smoking yet another cigarette. "You're glowing, Hirschfeld. Like a green aura or something."

"Yeah, May mentioned that too. Says that I'm Filled with Purpose, whatever that means. Helps me get an audience with Witches, signals I'm a friend or something. I think it’s a good thing."

He looked back at the Witch. May was standing in the doorway in her borrowed body, and the shape of a Doll with a shadow of the Witch superimposed. 

As the Witch closed the door she offered parting words through the mask. "Your eyes are fully open now. Good luck." 

He staggered against the car as he felt something like fingers pushing through the wound on his back. "This is too much. I can't." He pulled his shirt off and fell to the ground, grabbing at his back, trying desperately to push the wound closed.

He sobbed as Hirschfeld spoke to him. "Witches tend to get under your skin. It's their speciality."

"My back. It's. Help. Please."

Hirschfeld looked him over. Took a picture with his phone to show him. "There's nothing there I can see. Look for yourself."

He did his best to suppress the pain long enough to look. Shouldn't have looked. Can't unsee it once you look. Even more true when it looks back at you. Seeing one infernal eye peering through the wound in his back broke him. Cracked his fragile psyche like putting a hammer through an egg. Just a gooey malformed lump of bird dumped onto a cast-iron skillet.

He scrambled into the car and raced away without hesitation, leaving Hirschfeld and his shirt in the driveway. No room to think. No room to talk. Had to get home. Had to sleep so he could wake up from this terrible nightmare. He'd wake up beside Turner and everything would be okay again. The idea trickled into his head like the last drops of water in a desert. Just gotta get home and things can be okay again.

His Da was standing there outside the front doors to his apartment building when he got home. One of Da's friends worked with him. Must have mentioned his absence the past week. Da was silently furious. He pulled him out of the car and marched him to the elevator up to his apartment, hand locked on his shoulder the entire time. He didn't resist. Fighting back always made the beatings worse.

Once the door was closed, His Da pulled off his belt and swung. Rib shot. A classic. He bent double in pain. Da followed it with a strike to his shoulder, the leather breaking skin as he fell to the ground.

"You ungrateful bastard. How dare you embarrass me this way? Bad enough you're with that faggot, but now you make me look like a bad parent? I've let this go on long enough. You're going to throw out that limp dick. Get yourself some little slut who'll spread her legs easy enough that even a pathetic half-man like you can dribble some jizz inside her. Give your sainted mother the grandbabies she deserves, something to make up for the waste of a child you turned out to be. I can't believe I ever thought you'd make something of yourself, be a man worth carrying on the family name. My name. You don't deserve my name, whatever you are right now. But dammit if I'm not gonna try to beat some honor into you, and then, you're going straight to the Abbott Center to get that homo ripped out of your head. Where is he anyway? I'll teach him to lead MY son astray."

He gasped in pain on the ground. Can't curl up, can't try to protect himself. That makes Da madder. "Turner. He's dead."

His Da laughed. "Good Riddance."

He saw red. Turner was the one good thing in his life, the only one he could confide in, the only one he felt safe with, the only one who saw him for who he could be, the only one that knew him better than he knew himself. And his piece of shit Da had the audacity to mock his death. That Fucker. He stood up and swung. The first brave thing he did in his miserable life, and the last. His Da would be so proud if it wasn't his eye that got blackened. Da reeled back from the hit and growled. He shook his head, then grabbed him. Threw him right out the open balcony door. His back hit the railing, the fingers coming from the wound brushing against the wrought iron. Went over the fifth story balcony.

And so he died without you ever learning his name. Unloved. Alone, as every living creature is when they die. No one to mourn his passing or celebrate his life. It's fine, really, the best thing that could have happened to him. Shed tears on those who deserve it. He was just taking up space, an ill-fitting body borrowed from his parents and the church. I don't miss being him.

With a burst of primeval rage, I pulled the meat apart and escaped from the shitty flesh suit that had been my prison for so long. It hit with the wet sound of broken bones and meat as I flew upwards on fresh wings. Wings! I had fucking wings. I wondered what I looked like. Shit. I definitely didn't look human anymore. I had to find somewhere to go. Who could I trust— Hirschfeld? I had left him there without a word. It had been a few hours, but he might still be there, and if not, May was there. 

I flew faster than I expected, certainly faster than driving, and somehow stayed warm despite my nakedness. It would have been embarrassing in the shell, but my body was Mine in all its Glory. 

Hirschfeld was gone when I arrived. The Doll at the door told me that he'd be around in a few days to check on me. May told him I'd be back. It guided me to the kitchen where May sat drinking tea through the wooden mask.

"So. This is strange," I started, pulling up a chair.

"For you, certainly. For me, it's simply another day. Witches lead interesting lives. What do you want with Your life now?"

"Two things first. I Need a name, and to kill the monster that killed my shell. Afterwards… whatever helps all of us, our community."

"A good name for what he was. Lily, bring our guest some comfortable clothes, with accommodations for wings and a tail."

"Thank you May. It would be unbecoming to murder someone while naked."

"A matter of preference, but for family matters, I agree. As for your name, I do have some experience with that, if you would like?"

I thought about it. Picking a name wasn't an easy choice, and May had led me to my Becoming. "I'd be honored."

"Then I bestow upon you the name Eris, dear newly formed Devil. May you bring Strife to those who would attack our community."

The name settled into my skin like a benediction. Eris. "Happy birthday to me." Lily brought me a plain black outfit with wing and tail slits, and I dressed there in the kitchen. It fit perfectly. 

"Where is my father?"

"At home. I called a group to watch him shortly after you left here. Your shell is actually in the trunk of his car."

"You knew he was going to die?"

"Yes. And I told him, though he was too oblivious to fully understand. Thankfully he made the right choice and Became you, instead of being Stillborn."

"I should be angry, but I'm just grateful." I smiled. "I'll be back later tonight. "

"Before you go, I have one request for you. Consider it repayment if you wish. When you're done with him, send a message they won't be able to ignore." The mask that was her true form was expressionless, but her sadistic glee was palpable, silken violence in her voice. "And come back soon. I want to hear all about it."

The flight to my parents’ house was quick and joyous as I planned how I would do it. I landed outside, went to his car, cracked the trunk and collected Turner's ring from my empty shell. 

Getting inside the house was easy. I passed through the front door with a slight ripple. Reality is fluid for Devils. I found him in his bedroom drinking beer, kicked him in the chest before he could open his idiot mouth. "Are you proud of me now that I've finally made something of myself, Father?" I grabbed his left arm and swung him against his headboard, hearing the satisfying crack of his ribs shattering against the metal. As he began to scream, I crushed his throat just enough to squash that annoying sound. It was his turn to be seen and not heard.

I thought of flensing him, peeling off his skin as I’d longed to do to my shell, but it was so much effort for a little pile of untanned leather. Instead, I planted a foot on his chest and pulled at his right arm. It tore free like a wing from Thanksgiving turkey. Underdone. Not even worth eating. I cauterized the wound with a smidge of hellfire. Wouldn't do for him to bleed out. Too restful. I broke his legs next, bending left shin, right knee, left thigh, alternating as they snapped under the pressure. Hit him in his pleading face with his severed arm. Kinda funny the first time but quickly became meaningless. My tail speared his lower jaw, popping out through the gaping mouth, ripping free. I’d never seen him smile like that before.

I wasn't satisfied. Wasn't having fun like I expected. Didn't feel guilt or remorse, just Empty. This was supposed to be cathartic, Meaningful. Revenge for every strike of his belt, every casual backhand, every belligerent comment, every dream crushed. Instead I was torturing a pathetic old man. He deserved it, but his victim was already dead. I finally understood. This wasn't about revenge. I was a messenger, here to make a difference for the living, not the dead.

I tore his head off. Ended the lesson. I was to be Strife, not justice or vengeance. I was to sow discord amongst our enemies. I piled his pieces in a garbage bag and brought them outside. Met my fellow Devils who had gathered there for me. We flew to the Abbott Center. While my companions freed the inmates, I planted the pieces of his corpse around the building. Blood makes the grass grow, as they say. My father’s body will be the seeds of the change he feared. Before leaving, I wrote a message in his blood on the front doors:

Treat Us Like Monsters, and We'll Become Monsters.